


Lived-in Skin

by Todesengel



Category: Voltron: Lion Voltron
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-25
Updated: 2005-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't Pretty Woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lived-in Skin

"I love you," Hunk said, and Keith stopped dressing. His fly was unbuttoned and his shoes were untied and he couldn’t find his jacket, so he wasn’t precisely the composed picture he had wanted to present in this eventuality. Of course he hadn’t really thought about what would happen when Hunk professed his love. He’d actually hoped that this moment would never come, because if it did then that would mean he was seven kinds of stupid, just like he’d always suspected. This thing with Hunk wasn’t supposed to get this far; this thing with Hunk wasn’t even supposed to exist. It certainly wasn’t supposed to have lasted for eight months of half-truths and outright lies and slow, gentle sex.

"Keith?"

"Uh." Keith bent down and tied his shoes and he really wanted to leave but he loved that leather jacket. It used to be Lance’s. "Uh."

"Oh Christ." Hunk looked up at the ceiling and he was blushing and trying to be nonchalant, but he was incredibly bad at it. Keith felt his belly flip and made himself ignore it. Hunk wasn’t heart-stopping cute. Hunk wasn’t rich. Hunk wasn’t powerful. He was just Hunk and that … well, it probably wasn’t enough. "Can we. Can we forget that I said anything?"

"Yeah." Keith spotted the jacket on the chair and he grabbed it, kissing Hunk in passing. "Yeah. Uh. I have to go. I’ve got. There’s this thing." He stopped and touched Hunk's hair, let his fingers trail; he really liked Hunk's hair. He really liked Hunk. "I'll see you later?"

"Of course." Hunk grabbed Keith's hand and squeezed. "Give me a call."

Keith left Hunk's apartment and leaned against the door. His beeper was buzzing against his hip and it tingled. Hawkins wanted him; or rather, he had somebody else who wanted him.

He took a deep breath, tried to get his head out of the room he had just left and back into his life, back into his work. Tried to forget how just a smile from Hunk could make his toes curl and light a fire in the bottom of his stomach; tried to remember that he liked being a whore.

*

Six months before there had ever been any sign of trouble and Hunk was still living out East somewhere, Keith and Lance had had a discussion about their work. Keith had been having a small existential crisis brought on by a john who had a necrophilia kink and had insisted Keith lie in a tub filled with ice. Keith had these episodes every so often, so Lance was well prepared and brought the Jack Daniels and some pot and a bunch of Stooges tapes.

"I hate this job," Keith said when he opened the door. His lips were still a little blue from the ice bath and he'd already started drinking. "I fucking hate this job and I hate this life and I want a do over."

"Well good evening to you too." Lance had very long, thin, strong fingers -- piano player's fingers -- that were wonderful at wrapping bandages and giving massages. "Here. Drink something. It'll warm you up. And then go to sleep, and when you wake up, you'll feel better."

"You're not staying?"

"Got a date."

Lance liked being a whore. Hawkins persisted in calling them "Companions", but everybody in the Gentlemen's Gallery -- which was a terrible name in Keith's opinion -- knew that they were whores. And Lance was a favorite among the clientele. He was thin, scrappy and burned with passion -- or, more likely, with the fire the drugs gave him. Personally Keith couldn't see the attraction, but then again he had become jaded towards sex.

Keith didn't really understood why Lance loved being a whore. Keith liked the sex, usually, and he liked the money always, but it was mostly just a job. Lance didn't see it as a job; he saw it as an all-access smorgasbord to all the men and drugs and pretty things he wanted with lots of cash as a happy bonus.

"I don't want to feel better. I want to quit." Keith sniffled and retreated to the couch, which was closer to the radiator. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders and took a swig of his scotch. "Why the hell am I doing this anyway?"

"Sex and drugs and rock n' roll, man. That's what everybody wants," Lance said. He blew smoke rings -- cigarettes were just one of his many vices and not the worst by far -- and grinned at Keith from Keith's favorite chair. "You have to admit that two out of three ain't bad."

"It's just a job," Keith said.

"Oh come on. You have to admit that you enjoy this." Lance stretched and looped a leg over the armrest. He was thinner than he used to be and swam in the expanse of his jacket. "A nice place, all the cock you can handle. Plus, we've got the leaders of the free world by the balls."

"Don't you get bored with it?" Keith was starting to feel warm now, and he let the blanket slip down a little.

"Nah. There's always someone new." Lance lit another cigarette, passed it to Keith.

"Don't you ever, y'know, want to stop, maybe? Don't you just want to meet a guy you could love?"

"Love?" Lance snorted and reached down to ruffle Keith's hair. "Stop reading those trashy romance novels. We're whores Keith. And there's no ‘Pretty Woman' in our future." He pushed the cuffs of his jacket up and popped some gum in his mouth and smiled that smug, arrogant smile that drove his customers wild.

*

"About time." Hawkins closed the door behind Keith and sat down before his big, old desk. "When I page you, I expect you to be here, in that chair, in five minutes -- ten at the most. Not in an hour. It's not like I ask much of you. Just that, once in a while, you actually work. I mean, what do I pay you the big bucks for?"

"Because my regulars have impeccable credit." Keith pulled out his cigarettes and ignored Hawkins' glare. He was a Class-A Companion, after all. He'd worked long and hard and had earned the right to pick and choose. He blew some smoke out of the side of his mouth and let his mind wander back to Hunk. He wondered what Hunk was doing right now. "Look, is this going to take much longer?"

"No." Hawkins tossed Keith a folder and a small box that looked expensive. "I've got a guy who wants to meet you. He's rich, he's powerful and he's paid me a lot of money for an entire night with you."

Keith peeked into the box and wanted to raise an eyebrow, but he was at least 530-years-old in cynicism and even if it was a really nice gold pocket watch he still wasn't going to show that it had made an impression on him. Instead, he opened the folder and flipped through the new john's credentials. Former Prime Minister, widowed, rich. He had a floppy mustache. And he was old.

"He's old," Keith said.

"His money is good. And, since you haven't tendered your resignation yet, you're going." Hawkins looked down and Keith lit up another cigarette from the stub of his old one. Hawkins kept a grandfather clock in his office and it was very loud and kind of annoying. Keith blew some smoke at Hawkins because he didn't want the conversation to end like this; he really didn't want to spend the night with Floppy John. Hawkins looked up and frowned. "Are you still here? I thought I told you to go."

"I'm not sleeping with him."

"Yes," Hawkins said. "You are."

And that was that, because as much as Keith might sass and strut and be confident in the knowledge that he was the best Hawkins had, he was still a whore and Hawkins was still his pimp. Words and glossy, fake independence were just embarrassment and window dressing put out for the tourists to disguise the ugly truth.

Keith stood and considered handing in his resignation now, though only in passing because this wasn't the sort of job that you could walk away from. Besides, it was a nice watch. There was a lion on the cover and Keith had always liked lions. And this was all he knew; he'd never gone to school, never been anything but a whore -- his mother had been a whore, a good one by all reports, and so had her mother. His great-great grandmother had been an actress, which was more or less the same thing in those days. It was a family business at this point. Anyway, if he didn't do his job tonight he'd probably end up at Hunk's and that … well, it wasn't something Keith wanted to do right now. He needed to do some damage control and avoid Hunk as much as possible.

So, instead, he got up and took his bribe and went to find something slutty to wear. And hoped that this guy wasn't too sick in the head.

*

Three weeks before the last time he ever saw Lance again, Lance had come over to Keith's apartment to watch a movie and pretend they were normal guys. It was a game they played with each other, because they couldn't play games anywhere else and anyway everyone needed a hobby. But Lance broke with the tradition of five years of good, solid friendship by bringing work with him in the form of bruises on his wrists and neck -- and probably other places that Keith couldn't see -- and a new drug habit. Pills, this time, instead of something he snorted or inserted into his veins. He was jittery and his eyes were dilated and he was still Keith's best friend.

"You okay?" Keith wanted to stroke Lance's hair but settled for a cigarette instead.

"I just hate it when it's a girl, y'know?" Lance popped another pill and sat down then bounced up. "I mean, they want so much. And, it's just. Yuck. Women."

"Seriously, Lance. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure, fine. I'm fine." Lance prowled around the room and looked at Keith's books. He stopped behind Keith's chair and leaned on the back and put his mouth next to Keith's ear. "Listen. I have a secret."

"Lance. Sit." Keith pulled on Lance's hand.

"No, no, listen." Lance moved around and knelt before Keith. He bounced up and down on his heels and grinned. "I'm thinking about getting out of here. Getting out and, y'know, doing something with my life." He bounced away and laughed, high and giddy.

"But. I thought you liked this job."

"It's the women, man," Lance said, but he rubbed the bruise on his wrist and his eyes were sad.

*

Floppy John's name turned out to be Coran, and he had a very nice house indeed. It was up on a hill and had a great view of the sun setting over the ocean. Keith was either early or Coran was late, because when he arrived there was just a silent servant who showed him into the study and bowed his way out.

Keith looked at the pictures on the wall, at the liquor in the cabinet, the papers that probably shouldn't be out. All of it stank of wealth and power and Keith really hoped that he wasn't one of those guys who looked really normal but was incredibly kinky. Coran had paid a lot of money, which meant that Keith couldn't say no. He hated that.

"Ahh good. You're here." Keith turned, slowly, ignoring the small shock that made his heart leap. Coran closed the door behind him and walked toward Keith, his cane thumping softly against the floor.

The moustache didn't look any better in person than it did in the picture.

"My, my," Coran said. "Your picture doesn't do you justice." He walked around Keith, slowly and nodded. "Yes. Very nice. Money well spent indeed."

Keith lit a cigarette because that was what he did when he was nervous or bored or just needed to keep his hands busy and his mind focused on anything but what was really going on. He probably should quit but he didn't drink and he didn't do drugs and sex was just sex and no escape. He held off on taking a drag, just let the cigarette burn, let it get comfortable between his fingers, and said, "Let's get the rules straight -- "

"There are no rules." Coran plucked the cigarette from Keith's fingers and extinguished it. "You're bought and paid for tonight. You are mine, now."

He moved in closer, ran his fingers down Keith's cheek, caressed the jutting knob of his jaw. Keith tensed, then relaxed, forced himself to stand still and accept the caress. It wasn't hard -- he'd had a lot of practice enduring unpleasant touches from a wide variety of clients. It was easier now than it had been back in the day. Now he could pretend that it was Hunk's hands on his face, Hunk's kiss, Hunk's cock. He could feel Coran's approval and tried not to think about the fact that this man was probably old enough to be the father he'd never known. Instead, he closed his eyes and pictured Hunk before him, felt himself grow aroused and almost eager because as long as it was Hunk then he could enjoy himself. He managed to maintain the illusion even after he opened his eyes and stared into Coran's face, felt the scrape of his moustache and the awkward newness of his kiss and hands that were softer than Hunk's wrap around his cock and pull with rough disregard.

And then Coran backed away and Keith was so startled that the illusion popped and shattered into the darker reality. He took a couple of deep breaths, fought against the sudden vertigo of change to regain the composure that he always clothed himself in, stared suspiciously at Coran, who had flushed cheeks and the faintest hint of a smile.

"You're very good." Coran smoothed his moustache, cleared his throat. "Very good. But I have dinner reservations and you need to change." He walked behind the desk, pushed a button. "James, please show Keith to his clothes." He turned to the papers that Keith had flipped through as the silent servant who had shown him in came and touched Keith's elbow and showed him out.

*

The Sunday before the last day Keith ever saw Lance again, he met Lance for a bad lunch with some truly excellent wines. That was one of the perks of working for Hawkins: the end of the days of alcohol that was one step up from paint thinner. Back then, Keith had thought of that day as the Sunday six days after he had first met Hunk.

"You're late," Keith said.

"Yeah, well, Sven took me to church." Lance pulled his tie off and sprawled in his chair. He had a new bruise on his neck, one that looked like fingers. "He wanted me to give him a blow job during the sermon. That's sick, right?"

"No, I think that's just kinky."

"Even when it was Sven who was sermonizing?" Lance shook his head. "Catholic priests."

Keith ran his finger along the rim of his wine glass and thought about telling Lance about Hunk. He was quite honestly surprised by how much he missed the big man, how much he itched to see Hunk's sweet, innocent face again. Instead, he drank his wine and half-listened to Lance's meaningless chatter about churches and naves and the kinkiness of Swedish priests.

There was no more talk of leaving, so Keith figured that one night had been a fluke, and Lance had just been having a bad day. Bad days happened to everyone, even Lance, who'd never doubted what he was and what he did before.

Later, after Lance disappeared, Keith thought back to this day, to the words that had been unsaid and yet lay woven and lurking and waiting in the empty noise. He was a master of the hidden proposition -- he had to be, in his business, had to know how to read his clients and find out what they wanted but would never voice, just like they would never hire a boy like him to be the eye-candy for an evening in the real world -- but he'd completely missed Lance's silent, desperate, begging wish to not be alone anymore.

*

In the six weeks since he'd caught Coran's eye, they'd had strictly vanilla sex three times, Coran on top, and completely without the use of that handy little blue pill. The sex count would have been fine if Keith had only seen Coran three times, but he'd had to trot on over to Coran's expensive hideaway nearly every day and then proceed from there to dinners, movies, shows, places that were entirely too in the public eye for Keith's comfort. To say Keith was mildly disconcerted with this particular series of events, being entirely _not_ standard operating procedure as they were, was a bit of an understatement. He was used to being called out for quick fucks or kinky fantasies that the john's (or, occasionally, jane's) boyfriend/husband/lover/wife/healthy, sane partner/whatever would never even want to know about. He wasn't used to courtship, to talking, to getting to know the man behind the money that kept him in an expensive penthouse and all the couture and cigarettes that he could ever desire.

He wasn't used to being treated like a, well, equal. At least, not by someone who had to pay for his company.

He kept waiting for that other shoe to drop. The anticipation was, quite frankly, beginning to piss him off, make him agitated and horny.

He was on his fourth cigarette of the day and it was only ten in the morning. He wanted to call Hunk, to get Hunk's take on the situation, but Hunk had a real job and, anyway, he didn't know what Keith did so there was really nothing there but sweet torture.

Keith picked up the phone anyway, started to dial Lance's number out of habit -- which he thought he'd broken -- and dialed Pidge instead. Pidge would know all the dirt on Coran, Pidge and his wonderful, magical computer. Pidge would know if this was the last john for Keith, the one that would kill him and feed his body to the pigs, if Coran was the reason to get out of this business.

"Hello?" Pidge sounded caffeinated. This was good.

"Pidge, I need a favor." Keith sat on the edge of the window, flicked his ash down into the street below. "I need you to run a check on a guy for me."

"Sure. What's his name?"

"Coran. Coran Howell."

"The Defense Department guy?" Pidge made tapping noises and grunted. "Yeah. Give me a few seconds." Keith was, quite frankly, already amazed because Pidge had known more about Coran offhand than Keith did in the six weeks he'd been Coran's Companion. There was a faint beeping noise on the other end of the line and Pidge said, "Huh."

"Huh?" Keith gnawed on the calloused part of his thumb. "Good or bad?"

"Average. Nothing particularly outstanding. Just your average accumulation of minor sins." Pidge took a bite of something and filled the phone with static. "Nothing violent. At all. Looks like you're good to go."

"Thanks. I. Thanks." Keith hung up the phone, paced away into his bedroom. Lit another cigarette off the cinder of the old one. "Well, fuck."

The mattress squeaked when Keith sat down on it, which was a little strange because it was practically new, even though Keith had bought it nearly three years ago. He smoked his cigarette and thought about how he could get away from Coran -- not because there was any danger, or because the sex was terrible, or even because he didn't like the old guy, but just because being with Coran was keeping him from Hunk -- and then thought about what that said to him about his life.

As long as he was a whore, this was how it would be.

The phone rang and Keith jerked, slightly. The caller I.D said that it was Coran, and Keith was tempted, for a moment, to not answer. But he had to answer, to be available, because that was his job. So he picked the phone up and made himself sound happy to hear from the old man with the floppy moustache.

*

The last time Keith had seen Lance, it had been brief and wet and Lance had laughed at the way Keith had tried to avoid the raindrops. They had run into each at the Green market on 75th street, which had been a bit of a shock for Keith, because Lance had always said that the Green market was just … too. Too what, Keith didn't know, but that was just Lance for you. They were walking home when the rain started, and Keith's place was closest, so they had made a very undignified run for it, Keith juggling bags and keys and a couple of mostly ripe avocados, Lance just laughing.

Keith took Lance's laughter as a good sign, a healthy sign that Lance was over whatever had been troubling him lately, and let himself feel a little put out about the general uselessness of Lance.

"You could help," he grumbled.

"Sorry." Lance grabbed the avocados and held the door open once Keith finally managed to get his key in. He shook his head and sprayed water everywhere. He put Keith's fruit down on the kitchen counter and shrugged out of his ever-present leather jacket, draping it over a chair to let it dry. "It's just a little rain. You're not going to melt."

"Says you." Keith snagged a couple of beers out of the fridge and passed one to Lance. "So. How's life?"

"Pretty good. I've stopped answering Sven's pages." Lance grinned and toasted Keith and took a very large sip to avoid talking.

"Ah," Keith said. So that was it. Well, he'd done something similar a few times before, when the john went bad and dark and was too into pain. He should have suspected that it was something like that, though Keith had never known Lance to get freaked by anything; Lance gave back as good as he got, being frighteningly proficient with the knife he had sewn into the lining of his jacket. Keith preferred diplomacy to violence, but he could definitely see the pluses of Lance's solution. "Well. Cheers."

Lance smiled again and opened his mouth to say something, when his beeper went off. He unhooked it from his waistband, frowned at the number, put his beer down.

"Sven?" Keith asked.

"Hawkins." Lance looked at his still-damp jacket, then out the window at the bright spring sun that sparkled on the aftermath of the brief shower. "Gotta go."

"What about your jacket?"

"I'll pick it up later. We're still on for this Saturday?"

"Yeah."

Lance smiled and left and that was the last time Keith had seen him.

*

When Keith got to Coran's, he was shown into the same room he'd been brought to the first time he came and he thought, _Ah. It's the ‘I no longer require your services' speech_.

He got these speeches sometimes, from johns who thought this was being polite, or from the ones who thought this was more than it was, that it was an actual relationship and Keith would be heartbroken to see them go and would beg for a second chance. Keith enjoyed watching that type of john's face when he just shrugged and told them it'd still cost them the full half-hour nonetheless.

He wondered what type of john Coran would be; probably the polite one, who didn't realize that it was slightly humiliating for Keith to be reminded so bluntly that he was a whore. He disliked the underlying pity that laced those types of goodbyes. But just in case, he fingered Lance's knife because the second kind sometimes got flustered and violent when Keith didn't react with the appropriate servile attitude.

"Very prompt. That's good. Someday, though, I'll teach you the joys of delayed gratification."

Keith turned, slowly, and pretended that he wasn't amazed at how softly the old man moved. Coran looked good tonight, wearing an old uniform covered in medals and ribbons. He took his hat off and put it down on the desk, grimacing as he lowered himself into a chair.

"God, I hate parades," he said, and Keith smiled a little. "It's not the heat, it's the horses that really bother me. Ah well." He opened the jacket up, nodded over at the side bar. "Poor me a double, would you my boy?"

Keith filled a glass with two ice cubes and amber liquid -- just as Coran liked -- and made another for himself. If he was being let go -- and he hoped, a little bit, that he was -- he felt that he was entitled to one last drink. Coran smiled when he came back with the glasses and gestured for Keith to take a seat. For a long, liquid moment there was only the sound of ice clinking against the thick glasses and then Coran sighed and stroked the long, drooping ends of his moustache.

"Keith," he said, and Keith stiffened, just a little, "I know I'm not the type of man you would pick for yourself. I'm old. I only have a handful of years left in this world. I'm not looking for love, or sex. I just want a companion." He looked at Keith with wide, old, honest eyes. "It wouldn't be hard work. Just someone to talk to, someone who would, occasionally, indulge a dirty old man."

Keith put down his glass, afraid that it would slip from his suddenly clammy palms. "I -- " He swallowed, oddly nervous. He'd never had one of these speeches before.

"I'd buy you free from Hawkins, of course. Either way you decide. Call it a … bonus for a job well done." Coran reached out, caressed Keith's face. "I've enjoyed your company Keith. You deserve more than a life of servitude."

"I. Thank you." Keith looked down at his lap, wiped his hands on his pants. "Do I -- do you need an answer right away?"

"No, no. Take a little time. It's a big decision." Coran smiled, nodded, and Keith took that as his dismissal. He exited, politely, and made a beeline to Hunk's because he needed to know. He needed to know if Hunk, maybe, could accept him, could make a life with him.

"Hey stranger," Hunk said when he opened the door and that was a far as he got because Keith latched onto him with ferocious need, fumbled the door closed behind them, used all of his skill on Hunk because sex had always been where his talents truly lay.

They ended up on the bed, somehow, and afterwards, with the dusky late afternoon sun turning Hunk an appealing shade of gold, Keith said, quickly to get it out before his courage failed, "Hunk, I need you to know, I was -- I am -- a whore. I need you to know because. Because I really, really like you and I want to be with you and you need to know this."

He didn't say that he needed Hunk to protect him. Didn't say that Coran was going to buy him free, or that he was a very classy whore, or that he loved Hunk. He didn't want to confuse the issue. He just wanted Hunk to say that it was okay, or that he had known, or that it didn't matter.

But there was silence from the other side of the bed and a sudden sensation of space instead. Keith levered himself up, looked at Hunk's broad, honest face, watched the fear and revulsion and pity bloom in his eyes.

Well. There was his answer.

He rolled off the bed, dressed hurriedly, tried to pretend that he wasn't hurt, that he wasn't about to cry.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Sorry."

"Keith," Hunk began, but Keith couldn't hear anymore. There was a great rushing noise filling his head and he needed to get out of there.

*

Keith had actually seen Lance one more time, but he didn't really count it since it had been in the morgue. He'd been called in to identify the mangled body as that of his best friend, to say that the tortured flesh that lay exposed on the metal slab was the same thing as the bright, happy man who used to bring Keith chicken soup when he was sick.

The cops said they didn't have any leads, that it looked like it had been a random attack -- not particularly shocking given Lance's hazardous occupation. They said they'd keep Keith posted and asked him to be available, please, for further questioning. Keith had nodded and didn't once mention Sven or Hawkins or the fact that Lance had probably allowed himself to be chained up -- he did enjoy bondage so -- and that this wasn't some john who'd gone too far, but a deliberate attack.

He didn't say anything because he didn't want his words getting back to Hawkins; he didn't have anybody who would come down and cry for him like he'd cried for Lance.

*

Keith showed up on Coran's doorstep well into the evening. He didn't have much; just Lance's jacket and a couple of gifts that he'd hidden in the deep pockets; there was nothing he loved back at his apartment. Coran answered the door himself, which was a bit of a surprise.

"Keith?" Coran held the door open wide and Keith came in after a moment of hesitation. "Have you had enough time to think?"

Keith looked at Coran, who was old and cagey and knew something about who Keith was and didn't care. He had enjoyed his time with the old man -- Coran was less demanding than some of his other clients and had a rare gift for conversation. He could, probably, learn to care for this man, enough to feel sorry when he died at any rate. He could be … comfortable here, without fear of what would happen to him when he got too old to be attractive, or wondering which john would be his Sven.

He looked at Coran, with his floppy moustache and gray hair. This was as close to salvation as he was bound to get, this ten- or twelve- or fifteen-year term of easy servitude in return for freedom and probably more money then he could spend in the rest of his lifetime.

"Yes," he said.

Because this wasn't "Pretty Woman".

And nobody ever got saved.


End file.
